I Will Come to You
by brynerose
Summary: Sequel to 'I Think He Likes to be Asked,' Peter, Caity, and their families come face-to-face with the realities of WWII. Everything they had is about to be tested, but this time, is it strong enough? *not all historical facts will be spot on; bear with me
1. Chapter 1

I Will Come to You

I Will Come to You

Caity scrambled to wash her hands. A ruined building had partially collapsed on relief workers, right at the end of her shift, and as she was still training, she was told to help treat the minor injuries. If she hurried, though, she would still make it in time to meet Peter back at the university.

She moved with surprising speed despite the cane needed for any sort of distance. The previous summer's ordeal had left her with a stiffened leg, similar to what many polio survivors experienced. Not that it deterred her. Caity devoted so much time between her studies and work that she often spent more time outside the house than within it.

Peter was waiting for her when her taxi arrived. He looked troubled.

"Well, there's a face to be greeted by," Caity jested as she climbed out. "Are summer classes really that bad?" Peter slowly turned to fully face her, and all humor fell from the moment. His left cheek and eye were freshly discolored. "What happened?"

"Couple of boys in our year. They've been strutting about the last few weeks because they've enlisted; I apparently draw attention for preferring to settle down and teach instead of fight."

"So they took swings at you?"

"It was just an argument at first," Peter said without looking her in the eye. "They were taking the mickey out of another student because he said he couldn't get up the courage to enlist. I couldn't stand for it, and confronted them. We ended up throwing a few punches." He hung his head.

Caity touched his cheek gently. "It was admirable, though I wish you didn't get into so many disagreements about this war. How does this sound—why don't we skip the studying for now, go to my house, and fix something nice for supper. I think Father was planning on inviting your family. I could use a relaxing evening, anyway."

Peter was about to answer when the door behind him opened, and two young men in sharp new uniforms appeared. They immediately noticed the couple standing nearby. The taller of the two whistled.

"What do we have here? Looks like the leashes come shorter every day," he commented suggestively. Next to Caity, Peter stiffened. She squeezed his hand.

"Yeah, why don't you let 'im be a man while he still has the chance?" the other chimed in.

"Just ignore them," Caity murmured soothingly. "Let's go home. Forget them." By the time their taxi reached the Millers' residence, the tension had subsided a bit.

"You're home early," Dr. Miller said over the evening radio. "I'm afraid supper's not quite ready yet."

"There's no hurry. We just got bored with the quiet of the library, is all," replied Caity. Peter set the schoolbooks down and pulled a chair out for Caity. She sat down carefully, knowing her father was still attentive of everything she did. They needed a change of subject.

"Anything new on the front?"

Her father gave her a curious look. "You're always asking about news."

"Because Peter's father is out th—"

"I know, I know. I'm no less concerned than you. It's just that reliable news is a little scarce on our end, between the Americans barreling in and our own forces being so secretive after those embarrassing defeats." The doorbell rang. "Ah, that would be your family, Peter. I took the liberty of inviting them to supper, since your mother said that they wouldn't be able to stay for Caity's birthday tomorrow." Dr. Miller left to let them in.

"I keep forgetting that Lucy's play is tomorrow," Peter said apologetically.

"Going to see it is just as fine a present as any," Caity assured him. "Though it would be nicer if your father could see it with us."

"I know. It's been so long since we've heard from Dad. I hope the war ends soon now that the Americans have joined."

"So do I, Peter…" Caity slipped her arm around his.

"There you two are," Mrs. Pevensie broke through the moment. "How was school today? I'm afraid I've been so busy with—Peter, what happened to your eye?"

The boy's hand went instinctively to his face as all eyes turned to him. "Got in a row, is all. University recruits so puffed up they needed a good kick up the—"

"Peter, I will not hear language, whatever they did," his mother interrupted sharply. "They may be childish for picking fights over such a petty frame of mind, but _you_ decided to rise to the bait. Soon they'll be off to training, and you can go back to studying in peace. For now, however, patience will have to do."

"Yes, Mum," Peter muttered to the table. Caity squeezed his shoulder gently before getting up and retrieving a cut of meat form the refrigerator. This she placed over his eye and cheek.

"Leave that on for awhile, and it should bring the swelling down a little It won't look so bad in the morning."

Peter let his hand rest on top of hers for a few seconds before taking hold of the cold meat.

Dinner was a simple affair, owing to war rationing. But June weather was pleasant, and the Pevensies had brought a small chocolate cake. Lucy led everyone in a rousing chorus of 'Happy Birthday.' It was more than Caity could have asked for. Despite the lighthearted festivities, though, the subject soon returned to the war.

"I'm not saying there's anything wrong with it," argued Peter. "All I mean is does _every_ man's part of the war effort have to be on the front. You're a doctor. Caity's finishing her training as a nurse. There are other ways to help besides fighting."

"So you wouldn't consider enlisting ever?"

"Not if I can help it. I don't want glory, and I don't need to prove anything. What I've seen of war is enough to tell me that."

Dr. Miller smiled. "Well spoken. I shan't bother you about it further, then."

Caity found Peter's hand under the table. The adults weren't aware, but she, Susan, Edmund, and Lucy all knew what Peter really meant. He was referring to the struggles to free Narnia, of which the Pevensie siblings had been at the forefront. Caity had only been told the stories. The former Kings and Queens never chose bloodshed unless it was impossible to avoid.

"Well, I suppose we should be heading home," said Mrs. Pevensie, rather abruptly. "Tomorrow's a busy day."

In the flurry of activity to clean up, Caity managed to pull Peter into the back hall. "Promise me you'll stay safe. If I could ask for any birthday wish, it would be that a black eye is all you get for this war." She knew it sounded childish, but the thought of Peter appearing in a military uniform kept surfacing in her mind.

"I promise, with all the power I have in this world," he replied, brushing her cheek with his fingers.

"Peter?" Mrs. Pevensie's voice echoed from the front of the house. Peter rolled his eyes, gave Caity a brief kiss goodbye, and led the way out of the hall.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

"Peter, there's a notice just up for all the blokes in the school! Come on."

"Gimme a moment, Geoff."

"You won't be able to get through the queue and make it to class on time," Geoff warned. He was grinning over his shoulder as he walked away. Peter returned his attention to Caity whom he was walking to class.

"I'm alright from here," she assured him as she adjusted her grip on her cane. "This is about where we part anyway. Go on, don't be late." Her lips touched his cheek before she turned and disappeared down the hallway.

Peter reluctantly headed for the bulletin board, joining the knot of young men around it.

ATTENTION:

MANDATORY meeting for all men aged 18 through 40 years,

at 2.00 this afternoon,

in the gymnasium.

Your professors have already been notified.

"How convenient," Peter said drily. "We're headed for class in the gymnasium anyway. What do you think this is about?"

"Beats me," snickered Geoff.

Despite his friend's lighthearted attitude towards the subject, Peter couldn't help but feel a sense of foreboding all the way to class. How many issues would pertain only to the men in the school? Sure enough, the rapidly-growing crowd in the gymnasium was faced by several uniformed officers. _Uh-oh_.

"If you could be seated and quiet down, please," boomed the foremost of the group. "We wish to take up as little of your time today as possible. As you may have surmised," he gestured his colleagues and the crowd at large, "this meeting concerns the war, and His Majesty's Armed Forces. If the Allies are to achieve victory, we will need the help of men like you.

"You will be tested in several areas over the next few days, after which those of you who meet our qualifications will be notified. Schedules are being distributed as we speak, detailing when and where each group is to report. The first session takes place today. If you have already enlisted, then of course this will be simple for you.

"It is a great honor to serve one's country in such times as these. Not just anyone is requested to do so. If you do receive further notification, it will include information on when and where you are to report next. You will not be simply uprooted from your lives. Now, if we could proceed in an orderly fashion to your first tasks…"

Peter, having reached some sort of numb state by this point, was finally passed a copy of the aforementioned schedule. He would be remaining in the gymnasium, where something akin to the stations of an obstacle course was being assembled. Car tires, mats, a padded climbing wall, and cones were set up around the huge space, and some of the officers were now taking up positions. Once everyone else had left, the group assign to stay were counted off to the different areas and given instructions. There were pushups, pull ups, agility, and a distance run. Peter had always been athletic, though this time he wasn't nearly as pleased with the fact.

The following sessions comprised of various mental and physical examinations. And with each one that took place, Peter grew more and more nervous.

"Perhaps there are exceptions one could request," Caity suggested after the final one. "After all, you are in the middle of getting your teaching license."

"If only it were that easy," groaned Peter. "Except half the officers present kept watching me. Not just watching the group. Watching _me_. I stick out too much as a candidate to get away with anything."

There's still a chance. Have faith. You'll find your way to where you're supposed to be." Caity slid her arm around his tense one. She was being severely optimistic, possibly even in denial, and she knew it. Yet she had to keep up hope somehow. To dwell on the possibility of Peter having to leave for war would be unbearable.

A stifling week went by. Caity completed her nurse's training with flying colors, though the news only slightly lifted the pall that had settled around the families. Peter took to spending more time away from everyone. For the first time, Caity felt at a loss How could she promise that their fears would never come true?

On the last day of summer classes, she spotted Peter leaving the headmaster's office. He looked as if he faced the gallows. An envelope hung limply in his hand.

"Geoff's got one, too." The expression in his deep blue eyes was one of utter helplessness. "We're to be sent to Dover in three weeks."

The frayed thread of composure snapped somewhere deep in Caity's heart. Tears that had refused to come now burst forth as she suddenly rushed forward to embrace him. His arms held her tightly.

"Don't let go," she whispered urgently.

"I don't think I could bear to," replied Peter. "If I have to do this, if there's no other choice, I need you to help me be strong. Please."

It scared Caity to hear her strong, supportive Peter begging so desperately. He was a courageous and natural leader. But circumstances had changed. No longer was the field of battle filled with archers, swordsmen, and creatures engaged one-on-one. The enemy was collective, bolstered by industry, able to dispatch entire groups of soldiers without them ever getting close enough to fight back. And there would be no Aslan to back them up.


	2. Chapter 2

"Work hard, and do as you're told," Mrs

"Work hard, and do as you're told," Mrs. Pevensie instructed. "Who knows, the war could be over by the time you've finished training."

"It's only Dover," Susan attempted a positive air. Nonetheless, her face was as pale and tearstained as the rest. Edmund and Lucy remained woefully silent. Caity had been the only one successful at gaining permission to see Peter off at the train station. He insisted that he didn't want to put his family through the same experience as when they saw their father off.

Fierce hugs and kisses made their way around the little circle. Caity felt slightly removed from the situation; after all, she had not been present at the first parting, nor was she related by blood. Peter shared one last serious glance with his mother, and then finally carried his bags to the waiting taxi.

The ride to King's Cross passed in silence. Though Peter held tightly to Caity's hand, she didn't have the heart or the composure to look at him. Somehow she still hoped that this would never come to pass.

The station was as busy as ever when they entered. In no time, however, they were on the platform from which Peter's train was to depart. Steam already gave it a surreal look. No one was boarding yet, so Peter set his bags on the ground next to him.

"It's funny, isn't it? This is the platform where we first met," he murmured, his voice not entirely steady. Caity followed his gaze to the number 10 sign nearby, then finally looked him in the face. He seemed so young…

"Yes," was all she could say.

"I saw a group of soldiers leaving when we were evacuated during the air raids," Peter continued. "I suppose it didn't really sink in then that I could end up there as well."

Tears blurred Caity's view of the pristine uniform he now wore. "We don't know that. It's like your mother said: the war could end before you're called up, and you won't have to go at all."

"Maybe. But know that if I have to go, I'll go for the freedom and safety of everyone I love." He cradled her cheek with his hand. "No harm will come to you here."

Down the platform from them, the train's whistle blew.

"Promise me the next time I speak to you, it won't be at the hospital," choked Caity.

Peter fished around in his trouser pocket. He pulled out a ring with a single stone in it, and took Caity's left hand in his. "Mum found this for me; she said it was my grandmother's. _I will come back to you_. Don't you ever think otherwise." He slipped the ring on her finger.

The train whistled again, insistently. Caity threw her arms around Peter's neck as tightly as possible. "Don't go!"

"Keep me in your heart, and I never will," he answered. Their lips met in a desperate kiss, and then Peter had to dash to the train before the last carriage door was closed. He waved to Caity, now crying uncontrollably, until the train passed completely from sight. She had never felt so alone.

A vacuum seemed to envelop the taxi on its return journey. Caity wasn't sure if her mind was a racing blur or simply blank now, unaware of everything except the smooth handle of her cane, which she kept fussing with.

"_I will come back to you…"_

The reflecting of light off of the ring she now wore caught her attention. One thought finally penetrated the numbness—Peter had _proposed_ to her. Despite the torn sensation she felt inside, her heart seemed to swell with the this revelation, as if it somehow ensured his return.

_Aslan…you've kept him safe in Narnia,_ she prayed silently. _Please, keep him safe now. Or at least let me see him in your country…_

Mrs. Pevensie opened the door when Caity arrived home. Tears still stained her face, but she was smiling. She took Caity by her left hand. "He waited so long for the right moment. It was driving him mad." A moment hung between the women. Then, at the same moment, they burst once more into tears as they hugged each other.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

_No past experience could have prepared me for such physical exertions, even ones as unique as mine, though I'm sorely reminded of the time I dislocated my shoulder. One has to wonder how we could have grown to want to kill each other so. I dare not mention the ways, for you would be all the more distressed at the state of the war, and I fear you will face the results all too soon. There is talk of the next deployment from camp, though who will be on it, we don't yet know. For nearly three months, I have been sustained only by my photograph of you, a gift from your father. This camp does not feel like part of England. It seems so foreign, so far from home. But I am doing well; don't fear for that. Keep your chin up for me, and remember, I love you so much, and I will always love you. Until that wonderful day when I see you again,_

_Your Peter_

Caity carefully folded the letter into the tin where she was collecting her mail from Peter. Three months, already. Fall classes at the university were underway, but her schedule was adjusted to extra hours that she was to work as a nurse. The number of soldiers being treated at home was still limited, giving Caity one place where she was not constantly reminded of Peter's absence, at least for the time being. Longingly, she gazed at the ring on her finger.

"Caity!" Furious pounding on the front door echoed from downstairs. Caity hobbled to answer it as fast as she could, completely forgetting her cane. It was Lucy.

"I just heard the newspaper seller—_all_ active troops are being m-moved out to the front! That means P-Peter's going to have to f-f-fight!" The young girl broke down completely on the doorstep. Caity sank awkwardly to her knees and pulled Lucy into a firm hug.

"He's going to be alright, you'll see. He's a k-king of Narnia," she barely managed. Her own tears were already coursing down her face. Training within the country had been somewhat bearable, but the front…they sat on the step, crying, until Dr. Miller arrived home.

"What's happened?" he asked, setting down the rations he'd bought. Caity threw one arm around her father's neck while keeping the other around Lucy.

"Peter's leaving…for the front."

Dr. Miller embraced them both. "Does your mother know?" he murmured softly to Lucy. She shook her head. "I know it's hard, but we're all going to have to be brave for him. Him _and _your father. Now, let's get you some tea and a handkerchief, before I take you home. It's getting late."

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

It may have been a trick of the late-afternoon light, but Peter thought the sky looked chillingly ominous. Winter seemed eager to arrive. Around him, many of the other Army trainees were shifting with restless energy at the Dover camp.

An officer stepped up front, his back to the rough English Channel. "Last night, you each received instructions as to which ship you are to depart on. If you could, please, make your way to your assignments in a quick and orderly fashion now. Godspeed, and God save the King!"

"God save the King!" echoed the soldiers. Peter strode grimly with Geoff down to the HMS _North Star_. Their regiment was a fair mixture of seasoned soldiers returning to duty and young draftees from the various colleges, including the two boys whom Peter had fought with so long ago. Most of the men boarded in silence.

They were not called together until supper, well after the ship was underway. It was then that they were told of their mission—one beyond top secret, heading for a narrow window of opportunity close to the Dutch-German border. The evaluations, the careful selection, the thorough hours of training that easily exceeded most of the camp, it all led up to this classified, daring mission.

"No one is to know of this mission, now, later, or a hundred years after this war," Major Price warned. "Success or failure, to the world, it never happened. But I will tell you that it is possible you could bring about the end of the war.

"We are to penetrate Germany's defenses all the way to Berlin, or as far as necessary. You have been trained to survive on anything, strike silently, and become invisible. Since the Nazis are far spread and Hitler's attentions are on the Soviets, now is the time to slip through the cracks. Once on land, the squads will split up for different routes that will rendezvous on the west side of Berlin. So use the next few hours wisely; there will be no communication with the outside once you depart this ship. Dismissed."

Whatever nerves Peter had managed to fight down boiled up once more to the surface. He only had hours left to communicate with his family and Caity. And what's more, he seemed to have been shortlisted all along for a suicide mission to take down Germany from the inside. Back in the soldiers' quarters, the mood was somber. There was nothing to do but wait…


	3. Chapter 3

They should have known reaching the German coast wouldn't be as easy as it sounded. No sooner, it seemed, had they bunked down for the night, when the message was circulated that German U-boats were slipping in and out of radar range. If this was going to work, they were going to have to stay completely out of sight…which meant doubling back.

It still wasn't enough. Before long they were being tailed, and quickly gained upon. Their only chance of continuing the mission would be to attempt a landing on the coast of France. Before the U-boat caught them.

The wind sliced across the deck of the ship, sending shivers through the huddled figures at the railing. It was three in the morning, and a patchy rain had set in. Distant lights only barely marked the coastline. Peter still couldn't tell how they were to make it to land. He soon found out.

Soldiers were being filed into small, quiet-motored boats that had been lowered on one side. In the unsettled conditions, they were quickly soaked to the skin, and a few were even seasick. The only difference between land and water was glittering black and impenetrable black. Then, in an impossibly short amount of time, all hell broke loose.

There was a loud _thump_ from one of the nearby boats, and the distress flare burst into dazzling life, just clearing the side before pitching into the freezing water. It was only visible for a second or two, but that was all it took.

Shouts erupted from the shore, closely followed by the flash and _pop_ of gunfire, almost right in front of them. Caught! Soon shouts of pain and terror from the English soldiers, trapped in the boats, joined the ruckus. Someone close to Peter was hit; warm wetness splashed across his face and uniform. Bullets zipped around his own head. Everything was dissolving into chaos—light stabbing the darkness, splashes, screams, the occasional heavier explosion, the coppery smell of blood.

"Ahhh!"

Pain lanced through his neck and shoulder. It didn't seem to be a hit, but already the rough fabric of his shirt was sticking to the spot. If they didn't reach cover soon, they were all dead men.

As if some unseen force heard Peter, the front of the boat struck rock. The craggy coastline rose before them. Immediately, those who were able scrambled for the many holes and crevasses that could shield them from the onslaught. Only the injured who could make themselves heard were assisted.

"They can't possibly make it all the way down here to search for us," Geoff gasped. He was miraculously unhurt, but he was applying pressure to the leg wound of another.

"Some, secret mission," muttered Peter. "Half the German army's going to know we're here now."

"We're all going to die, aren't we? The army just sent us as a distraction to lure them away from the real attack," one of the other young soldiers rambled hysterically. It was one of Peter's tormentors from the university.

"We'll just have to prove them wrong," Peter retorted. "Tend to wounds as best you can. Then we'll organize watches for the rest of the night, and survey the damage once it's light. Hopefully others have found suitable shelter as well."

Heads nodded, or what he could see of them. A couple of the injured still moaned in pain, but otherwise, all had gone eerily quiet. Shouts and machine guns no longer rang out outside the cave.

_I've never felt so alone,_ thought Peter.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

For those who actually managed to sleep, morning greeted them with cold and stiffness. There were six of them in the cave, counting one who hadn't survived the night. Four of them had minor wounds, but nothing was to be seen of the remaining ten that had been in the tiny boat with them.

"What now?" asked Perkins, the university student who had spoken last night.

"Do you think any of the others made it?" Geoff chimed in. "I mean, there were four boats."

Peter shrugged, then winced. He'd somehow managed to forget about his own injury. "I hope so, though there's no way to tell unless we check it out." He bit his lip as his collar pulled itself away from the wound.

"Are you okay? You didn't mention you were injured last night."

Before he could protest, Geoff had Peter's pack unloaded and his left shoulder out of his shirt sleeve. A fair gash had been torn into the skin, not two inches from his jugular. Part of it was now bleeding again.

"It's nothing…" Peter's mind had already filled with images of bodies strewn around the rocks. But Geoff set him down firmly and began to apply a field dressing.

"This might be bad enough to need stitches—and you were going to keep it a secret?" his best friend grumbled. "We haven't even been out of England an entire—"

"Shh!"

Peter sat absolutely still, holding his arms out to silence the others. Scraping sounds could be heard outside the cave. Footsteps.

"I was sure I saw one of the boats make land here…" a low voice said.

Peter jumped up; he knew the voice of Captain Wyle. It surprised the other men so that they immediately tried to hold him down. The sudden pressure caused him to cry out in pain.

Several hushed voices spoke as they neared the cave opening. Recognizing them all as speaking English, Geoff ventured to meet them.

"We're in here, or at least some of us," he answered in the same quiet tone.

Captain Wyle appeared, followed by what seemed to be a fair group of men, though Peter couldn't see them all. Some were injured, most were still able to fight if needed.

"Six in all. One died during the night. But the rest of us are still fit, for the most part. Pevensie here's been a little reluctant towards treatment."

Wyle studied Peter, who was still halfway out of his shirt, bandage exposed. Peter returned his gaze with steady determination born of his years as High King. This was no time to be sitting idly and nursing wounds. Either they were going to try to escape, or continue the mission.

"I think the boy's had all the treatment he needs," the Captain decided with a smile. "Your boat must have been the furthest west. We still have about 30 fit men. There's an emergency rendezvous point just 20 miles from here, along the coast, if my memory serves me right. First we need to assist the injured that need evacuating, and then the rest can split up into groups of ten to continue east. This is as real as it's ever going to get. We'll have to leave the dead. Let's get our bearings and move out."

_Only 30 fit men…half of us dead, injured, or missing…_ Peter's mind was numb. He'd faced losses in Narnia, but it still left him in shock to have known so many, and then have them gone. His other former tormentor was among them. Suddenly the whole idea of war became more personal than he ever could have imagined. He could very possibly die all alone.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The outpost was even more depressing, if that was possible. It embodied only the barest sense of organization, and general heightened tension. A well-disguised field hospital teemed with activity as soldiers were brought in, helped out to emergency transports run by sympathetic locals, and—Peter swallowed hard—occasionally carried out and around between the hospital and communications.

He knew he didn't want to look, and yet couldn't seem to resist glancing through the narrow space when they passed. Shockingly close were rows of the dead waiting to be buried, some grotesquely disfigured.

"There's a mess tent on the far side of the hospital; get a hot meal and rest your feet while I brief the commanders," Captain Wyle said grimly. "Get those who need it to a doctor."

A fair number of soldiers were taking their lunch, some still sporting bandages or other signs of injury. The overall tone of the place was somber.

"What's happened?" Geoff ventured to ask one man as they sat down.

"Jerry ship snuck up on some nearby outposts. Hit them pretty hard. We haven't even started receiving survivors from one or two yet. I only made it because I was on a supply run." The soldier stared at his tin plate. "I was heading for Quarry Post, the one that was hit the hardest. Most of the commanders are dead."

Peter's heart leapt into his throat. "Quarry Post? How often did you run supplies? Do you know a sergeant by the name of Pevensie?"

"Only by reputation. Ran a tight post," replied the soldier. "But like I said, I didn't make it there because of the attack. I just know that it was devastating."

"Where are you going?" Geoff asked through a mouthful of food. Peter didn't answer. He didn't know where he was going, or what he thought, or how the heck he'd gotten there. It didn't matter. All that stuck in his mind was that his dad's last known location was a compound that by now was probably demolished.

Making his way through the latest evacuees, including his own comrades, Peter found himself abruptly at the edge of the makeshift graveyard. He promptly turned around. It was too easy to picture his dad as one of the mangled, empty-eyed corpses.

Overhead, a strange whine grew above the general noises of the outpost. Peter looked up.

"Planes!" someone nearby shouted. Everywhere soldiers began to run for cover. Right on cue, _Luftwaffe_ planes appeared over the trees, machine guns spitting.

The result was absolute pandemonium. Some soldiers made a run for the transportation that could return them to England, others for the nearby town in hopes of sanctuary. As Peter himself started running, his comrades came bolting out of the mess tent.

"What's going on? Are we under attack?" yelled Geoff. Time seemed to slow down for Peter. Geoff was running toward him, just as a planes rose above the nearby trees. Peter could only watch as first dirt, then blood, sprayed around his best friend. Then the momentum of the body knocked him to the ground, shielded from the onslaught of the passing plane.

He couldn't remain in the open like this, not after seeing the frozen shock on Geoff's face. The town was only a few hundred feet away now. Untangling himself from the corpses around him, Peter sprinted for his life.

A new whistle joined the din, until it burst into an explosion of dirt and rubble just ahead of him. Bombs! So they were attacking the town, too. Even so, there was greater protection among the buildings than in the field…hopefully. Explosives continued to rain down from the sky. Debris pelted Peter's clothes and skin, some pieces large enough to actually hurt. He dove between two shops as a last-ditch effort. This time he wasn't so lucky.

Some type of heavy artillery hit one of the shops he was using for cover. Before he could react, brick and mortar showered his head and back. Everything went black.


	4. Chapter 4

"You're alright. It was just a dream," soothed Caity. The soldier whose bed she was perched on was still shaking. He needed to keep still, before he pulled out the stitches across his shoulder.

"I can't stop seeing them," the young man moaned. "Hundreds of people mowed down before they could do anything…men that I knew dying before my eyes. I saw Hopkins go down, and then Pevensie covered in blood but running for the village." He closed his eyes, as if trying to block out the horrors he was describing.

Caity's heart, meanwhile, had skipped a beat. Geoff Hopkins was dead, and even worse, Peter's fate was precariously unknown. Despite her best efforts, she couldn't suppress wild images of her fiancée lying amid a field of tangled bodies.

"I can't believe I thought them weak for not volunteering to enlist," muttered the soldier. "There's no glory in war, only death and destruction." Under the bruises and lacerations, he was one of the university students whom Peter had traded punches with so long ago.

The tension was too much. Seeing that her charge was falling back asleep, Caity hurried from the ward, fighting a losing battle with the tears that were trying to surface. Peter couldn't be gone…

She passed a doctor and another nurse almost without noticing them, if the nurse hadn't spoken at that very moment.

"Dr. Willard, Sgt. Pevensie's finally awake."

Peter's father! The severely injured man didn't know that his eldest son was on the front, much less missing. How could he be told, in his condition?

Back at home, Caity held the last letter she'd received from Peter and cried. Cried for her lost love, cried for his family, who didn't know yet what happened. This news had not arrived through official channels, so it would be up to her to break it to them. The letter had managed to make it back on a ship which had barely escaped enemy waters—dated the night before Peter said they would be cut off from any means of communication. Now he was truly lost on the front. The realization swirled endlessly around her head.

Downstairs, the front door opened and closed.

"Caity? The Pevensies called my office with wonderful news. Their father is being released to recover at home! We've been invited to supper to meet him. What do you think? Caity?" It took her father a minute or so to try checking her room, where she continued to hug the letter and a pillow.

"Is everything alright? Caity?" pressed her father, sitting and putting a hand on her shaking back.

Caity couldn't speak at first; she only shook her head. Her left hand clutched tighter on the letter, bringing her ring into view. New tears welled up.

"Caity? Darling?"

She shook her head more furiously. "I…I don't think I can face them right now."

"Why not?"

"Bec—I—I just can't!"

"If something's happened, I need to at least know about it," her father said gently.

Caity took several moments in attempt to calm down. Luckily, she'd had the sense to put a stock of handkerchiefs nearby. Finally, she was able to take a deep, shuddering breath, though she couldn't look her father in the eye. "As I was making my rounds, I heard something. Something terrible, from one of the injured soldiers. He was remembering an attack he'd been in, and…and he said he'd seen Peter disappear. Just like that. Still alive, at least then, but when I checked the list of names collected on the ship, Peter wasn't on it. No one has any idea where he is! Dead, alive, home, or—or—" She broke down once more.

Her father hugged her tightly. "Oh, Caity, just cry now. Does his family know?"

"N-n-no," Caity wimpered. "Nothing was through official channels. So I'd have to tell them, and I just can't bear it!"

"They'll have to know, dearest. It won't help to hide it from them."

"I know." Caity had never been so miserable, and that was saying a lot. "But they almost just lost their father; how could I have the heart to tell them they might have lost their son?"

"We'll find a way. If you're feeling too distraught, you don't have to come. I'll just tell them you weren't feeling well."

Indeed, the impassioned crying had left her feeling tired. Caity lay down on the pillow she was hugging. Her father rubbed her back for awhile, and then went back downstairs to let her rest. However, the quiet was both peaceful and unsettling.

_Aslan,_ she pleaded in her thoughts, _You did so much for me once. Please, watch over him out there. Lead him home._ Before falling asleep, she pressed her lips to the ring on her left hand.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

"Uhnnn…"

Pain seemed to weigh Peter's whole body down. Dimly he realized that daylight was glowing through his eyelids. How long had it been? The last thing he remembered was a cloudy afternoon.

Eerie silence jogged his memory back to how he'd ended up where he was. The failed mission had brought them to the outpost, which was then attacked. All the explosions, men running in every direction, screaming…Peter had been on of many who had attempted to find shelter in the nearby town. But that had been attacked too.

Reluctantly, his eyes finally opened. The sun was just beginning to creep into the narrow alley, helped by the chunks of brickwork that were now missing from the top of the shop to his left. A sharp wind found its way through the passage, sending Peter into a fit of painful shivering. He needed to move, and soon.

Dust and rubble fell away noisily as Peter sat up. He tasted blood from the effort to keep from crying out. Pain had localized suddenly into his right wrist, which barely moved even when he put weight on it. There was also considerable topical pain at the back of his head. His good hand found hair matted with dried blood. That must have been the injury that knocked him out.

_What if the Germans come back?_ The thought struck him. _It's not safe. You're on your own now…_

Despite his protesting head and cold, stiff body, Peter coaxed himself to his feet. Without British forces for orders and general security, he had only one mission: to get home alive. He'd promised his family, and he'd promised Caity. He had to make it.

The once-lively town's streets were deserted. There didn't seem to be any bodies, but if there were survivors, they remained well hidden. Shops that had suffered damage were simply left to the open. Peter found a bakery that still had edible goods; his stomach was quite empty. Unfortunately, water proved harder to find. He finally had to accept defeat for the time being and move on. Enemies could be anywhere.

Stories had circulated of soldiers and Jews being hidden on the rural farms, which were not in short supply. He could only hope however, that the people he found would be friendly. So much was uncertain.

Twice, some type of German patrol forced Peter into whatever hiding he could find. The way was slow going, especially with his injuries. By nightfall, he had to find some type of shelter where he could rest, or else risk passing out in the open. A nearby grove of trees would have to suffice. He couldn't help but wonder how long he could continue like this, with little food, clothing, and a rapidly progressing autumn.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

"…Even on a calm night, only a few hours of exposure can pose a risk for lowered body temperature, and thus a higher susceptibility to illness," the professor warned dramatically. Caity kept her eyes steadily on the paper in front of her. She worked as a nurse—why did she still have to take a health class? All it did was feed her endless horrible situations that Peter could be facing at that very moment.

At long last, the dismissal bell rang. Even with her cane and limp, Caity was the first one out of the lecture hall.

"Hey! Wait up!"

Lizabeth, a poignant, red-haired girl and fellow nurse, ran to catch up. The two had struck up a friendship after Lizabeth's brother had been deployed as well. "Remind me never to challenge you to a race if Professor Hyde is the official."

Caity couldn't help but smile at this quip. The head professor of the health and science department was well known to be a bit eccentric, especially with an audience. 'Professor Hyde' was one of many affectionate nicknames that circulated among the university students.

"So, you're off to the victory garden, then?" asked Lizabeth.

"Of course." Each nurse had a day off every other week, to them working fresh. Both Caity and Lizabeth frequented the neighborhood victory garden to support their loved ones on these occasions. "Everyone's in a mad dash to finish the harvest before we start getting frost. And Mrs. Vincent isn't feeling so well, so once the crops are rationed out, we'll be bringing her share over to her, hopefully this evening."

"Bless her. She really does care for everyone in the neighborhood."

"And their families and friends," Caity added. "She was the one who helped the Pevensies find their new house."

Lizabeth smiled. "Well, I'll see you tomorrow, since it's not my day off."

They said their goodbyes, Caity taking a cab, Lizabeth disappearing toward the Underground. The station nearest the Millers' house still required a fair walk, which was more difficult for Caity.

Gentle autumn sunlight fell upon the little community garden. The Pevensies were already there—Edmund was at football practice, but Mrs. Pevensie and the girls were busy picking the ripe vegetables. Sergeant Pevensie looked on from a lawn chair for the first time, still recovering from the war. Caity was struck by the resemblance Peter had to his father. The latter's hair was much lighter (and now beginning to turn grey), but there was no doubt that he possessed the same clear blue eyes and regal demeanor that she'd come to love in her fiancée.

"Well, it looks like work is well underway already," she said by way of greeting. "Why don't I fix everyone some tea?" A chorus of 'yes thank you's followed her to the Pevensies' house, which was just next door. Then the elderly couple from across the way walked up to join them, and Caity had to busy herself making sure everyone was accommodated. Having had to leave her cane outside so she could use both hands, the going was a bit slower than she would have liked.

"William, I don't believe you've actually met Caity yet," said Mrs. Pevensie, setting down a basket of turnips. "This is Caity Miller, whose father boarded Peter last year. She's to be part of our family before too long."

Caity nodded her respect as she passed the war veteran some tea. Despite his awful experience overseas, he had lost none of his sharpness. The keen blue eyes had already found her engagement ring.

"Ahh, a pleasure to meet you at last," he said genially. "After so long of hearing all the wonderful stories from Peter."

"Pleasure to meet you too, sir," replied Caity, blushing. However, the mention of the absent boy's name cast a pall over the whole party. She had to admire the entire family for putting on such a stiff upper lip, although Lucy in particular had abandoned much of her light-hearted disposition. War made for such difficult times in so many ways.

"Could I have a private word with Miss Miller?" asked Sgt. Pevensie, in an effort to save the moment. "I believe the runner beans should be picked today, by the looks of them." As the others returned to work, he motioned to another chair in which Caity could sit. Caity took a moment when her back was turned to wipe away the tears that had been forming.

"We all miss him, child."

"I know," sighed Caity. "I must seem silly compared to you, though. I mean, you're his family."

"I thought he was going to marry you," Sgt. Pevensie pointed out wryly.

Caity smiled in spite of herself. The older man's battle-marked hand took hers; she met his steady gaze a little reluctantly. Peter was so much like him…

"I won't say I'm not afraid, having been where he is. But he's a resourceful boy. He'll find his way back."


	5. Chapter 5

"_Troufion_ Englishman. _Troufion_!"1

"Five more minutes," Peter mumbled. He winced as a pair of heavy hands continued to shake him.

"_Se hâter, si'l vous plaît_. Ze _Allemands_ are coming!"2

"The _what_?"

"_Ze Germans_!" hissed the impatient voice. Peter slowly opened his eyes. Daybreak was just close enough that he could make out a plainly-dressed man standing above him. It hit him—the last thing he remembered was spotting a farmhouse, lit against the dark like a beacon to his exhausted and hunger-ravaged mind. He must have passed out in this Frenchman's back garden.

"I'm sorry—er—_pardon_—I think." As Peter rose, his whole body protested. "I'm just looking for shelter, if you can spare it."

"We have none I'm afraid. Ze Germans would find you here. But I can give you goot close and food and poot you in ze direction off someone who can hide you. Come." The weather-beaten man set off hastily for the house. Peter struggled to keep up.

The little kitchen was warm and homey, but there was not much time to admire it. The farmer reappeared with an armload of clothes. "You get into zat, quickly. It iz not much but it stickz out less zan zat Eenglish uniform you have, eh? I burn it later. _Se hâter_, and I shall pack zome foot for you."

Peter did so with great difficulty. Not only were his muscles cold and stiff, but some of his wounds were making themselves known again. His right wrist barely moved, and the bullet graze on his shoulder had never gotten properly treated. The clumsy field bandage was falling apart now; he'd have to do without.

The farmer pushed a satchel of food into Peter's aching arms. "Zere, zat should be enough to get you to Jean's. Follow ze woods straight west for two days. You come to eh stream and _minoterie__3_ wiss a white house. Tell zem 'Anri sent you. Now go, ze Germans are searching for soldiers from ze camps."

They moved back outdoors. "_Monsieur_," Peter whispered. "_Merci_. For everything."

The farmer simply nodded. "_Se hâter_!" He pointed Peter to the woods, and then Peter was alone again. A bitter wind came around the farmhouse, sending shivers through his whole body. Soon, the Germans wouldn't be his only worry.

It wasn't long before Peter saw how right Henri was. And how lucky he was to have been pointed to the woods. Several patrols were out in the open, knocking on doors and searching fields. By some miracle, they never seemed suspicious of the bit of woods in which Peter hid. Still, it never failed to make him nervous. He was completely unarmed.

Nights were the hardest. It was all he could do to stay warm with no shelter, and only the clothes on his back. His injuries were also not improving in their current state. At least he had decent food, he reminded himself. Henri had supplied him with bread, fruit, a little salted pork, and a canteen of water. Enough for two days of travel.

At long last, shortly before dark on the second day, Peter sighted the white house. Next to it was a water-run mill, right on the stream. All he had to do was make it across the open expanse between the woods and the buildings.

Halfway there, a dog began to bark menacingly. Lights came on, and a huge man stepped out, carrying a rifle. Peter froze.

"Henri sent me! I mean you no harm!"

The man rattled on in French until he was close enough to survey Peter. Then he abruptly switched to English. "Silly English boy. If you came from zose outposts, zen surely you know zat Germans are all over ze place. Come on, get in here." His handle on English was certainly more accomplished than Henri's.

"Please, sir," Peter said, careful to lower his voice this time. "Are you Jean? Henri said you could offer shelter."

"_Oui, oui_," Jean answered over his shoulder. "Best leave talk for inside, though." They trekked in silence to what Peter now saw was the back door. An equally large woman in a housedress was waiting for them. She and Jean conversed in French for less than a minute, and suddenly Peter was being ushered inside…and out of his clothes.

"Wait—w-what's she doing?" In the process of being wrestled out of his jacket, Peter's wrist was jarred sharply. He couldn't mask the pain from his face.

Jean surveyed him calmly. "I could tell from your gait and posture zat you were injured. Zis is my wife, Charlotte. An excellent nurse."

The jacket, jumper, and shirt all came off. Charlotte let out a quiet exclamation at the sight of the gash in his shoulder. But Peter drew the line at the request to take his trousers off. Hospitable as they may be, he did not feel comfortable undressing that far with a couple of strangers.

"There's nothing wrong down there that can't be dealt with by rolling them up," he insisted.

Charlotte glanced at her husband, who shrugged. She went back to fetching the necessary supplies. Her methods of cleaning and doctoring were not the gentlest, but they did the job well enough. Even the shoulder wound was cleaned up in no time. At this point, however, she said something in French and left the room.

"She's gone to get heavier thread, a clean sock, and some hard cider," Jean explained.

"Why hard cider?"

"To dull the pain, hopefully. Zat shoulder is going to need stitching up, and she will neet to set your wrist." The big man smiled. "Ze sock should prevent anyone nearby from…investigating."

Charlotte returned. The cider wasn't bad, though it burned Peter's throat a bit. Even with the homemade liquor, however, the sting of the needle on such tender skin was difficult to ignore. He was breaking into a sweat by the time she turned her attention to his wrist. After examining it carefully, she looked up at Jean.

"Try to relax as much as possible." He handed Peter the thick sock, and took up position behind the chair so as to hold Peter still. Peter's breathing grew fast and shallow. Charlotte firmly grasped his hand and lower forearm in her own hands…and pulled.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Exhausted, Caity collapsed into a nearby chair. The mostly close-quarters work of being a nurse allowed her to remain free of her cane for hours at a time, but her duties were no less akin to a marathon. War became a constant presence—daily casualties required longer hours for most of the staff, while food, petrol, supplies, and many other materials had to be divided between the home front and the war front.

It didn't stop there, either. Several nurses, who had received military training for one setting or another, were sent to Europe in mid October. Lizabeth was one of them. As Allied footholds began to strengthen in places, midway hospitals were being set up to provide more immediate care to injured soldiers.

"We've got late arrivals; everyone hop to!"

The whole business tore at Caity's heart. So many young lives altered forever, or simply ended. No amount of nurse's training could prepare her for some of the horrors, physically or mentally, her patients suffered. And all the while, she kept imagining that it was Peter she was holding, soothing, treating…and sometimes, covering with a white sheet.

She cried nearly every night now. Many times she fell asleep clutching that final letter. On her nightstand sat a photograph of Peter and herself from the previous Christmas. What she would give up to have that this year. Her head spun with racing thoughts that refused to go away.

_Why can't you just come home?_

1 'Mister' (military)

2 'Hurry, please…Germans'

3 'flourmill'


	6. Chapter 6

Frost crunched under Peter's feet as he carried Charlotte's aluminum pail to the water pump. Despite his semi-healed condition and a slight headcold, he'd managed to convince the French couple to let him help with chores, as long as he was careful. Jean's mill supplied the little town to the south with flour and other grain materials from what the farmers brought. While he and Charlotte kept to themselves for the most part, they were well respected. This put them in a very good position to offer an unusual service—smuggling stranded Allied soldiers. Since yearly hired help was a common practice of Jean's, nothing was thought of men coming and going at the mill. Charlotte kept two spare rooms for this purpose.

Peter was amazed by their courage. With all but the very southern part of France under Nazi control, they were risking everything they had for complete strangers.

So three weeks were filled with pumping water, carrying firewood, and helping Jean prepare his deliveries for trips in the horse-drawn cart. They had no interest in modern ways when the old ones worked just fine. Peter, out of courtesy for his hosts, diligently took note of everything he heard in French, with Jean and Charlotte's help. Not only would it help when he finally continued his journey, but it seemed decent not to force Jean to speak English all the time. Charlotte didn't know any at all.

He should have known it was too good to last, though.

Jean was making deliveries, so it was up to Peter to finish winterizing the old watermill. It was slow work, owing to his wrist (tightly splinted and wrapped) and the effect of a brisk wind on the stream. He had just made the final adjustments, however, when a loud _crack_ sounded from some distance behind him.

When one has been in the war, there's no mistaking gunfire.

A figure broke cover on the far side of the open meadow, heading straight for the mill. Distant shouts followed him…shouts in German. Peter bolted for the house just as Charlotte came out to investigate.

"Germans!" he hissed. "Get inside! _L'intérieur_!1 Now!"

A horse whinnied to their right; Jean was home. Charlotte glanced from the man stumbling toward them to her husband, and finally at Peter.

"_S'enfuir_, Peter,"2 she replied, shaking her head and pointing at the continuing woods on the other side of the stream. They both jumped as shots were fired once more. Jean came, huffing, to join them, rifle in hand.

"You must go, Peter, now. We shall try to 'elp 'im as best we came, but it iz too risky to try 'iding both of you. Goot luck."

"_Merci_," Peter said faintly.

"_Adieu_," Jean and Charlotte replied together. They urged him on as German soldiers appeared over the slight ride of the meadow. He was off again, in the opposite direction. Except this time, he met opposition almost immediately. The banks of the stream were steep and slippery, and as he made his way back up, he had to catch himself with his right hand, jarring it painfully. Wet and grimacing, he made it to the woods. More shots echoed from the direction of the house. Peter hung his head.

This trip was going to be harder, he knew. While he still had daylight to dry his clothes, the air was definitely cooler than before. Furthermore, he had no food, and no idea where he was going. He just knew he couldn't stop.

Brambles snagged his clothes, and low branches whipped his face. Peter hadn't been going for very long before his breathing grew ragged. Pure adrenaline was all that kept him in motion—until his foot discovered a rotted log. Momentum carried him flat onto the ground, winding him completely.

Eerie silence was pierced only by his own struggling breaths. Luck proved Peter's boot to be sturdier than the wood which had trapped it; his ankle was none the worse from falling. His wrist was a different story. The splint was fairly ruined now, and renewed pain shot up his arm.

"So much for three weeks' healing," he muttered to himself. Light streaks of blood smeared from his cheek to his sleeve. A frosty wind skimmed his exposed back, sending shivers up it. Something light and rather crinkled was blown loose from under him, but he managed to catch it. It was the small photograph of Caity he always kept with him. Though worn and faded now, her happy smile lifted Peter's drowning spirits. He had made her a promise, once.

"I'm coming back to you, Caity…"

New energy carried Peter to his feet. The wind protested and his body complained, but determination burned once again in his mind.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

"_Peter, your journey is not finished yet."_

"_But it's so warm here. Why can't I just stay here?"_

"_Because here is not where you are meant to be, Son of Adam."_

"_I'm so tired…how much farther is it?"_

"_**Peter**__!"_

This time it was not only Aslan's voice that spoke. Peter saw his picture of Caity—except she was moving! Gracefully, she came towards him, hands extended to help him up and her limp gone. Rippling sunlight pulsed behind her. Inner warmth and strength seemed to well up from nowhere.

"_Go_," Aslan's command echoed with a building roar. "_Go!_"

And as Peter felt himself uncurl from his cocoon of oblivion, cold and pain hit him once more. Muscles seized involuntarily against the chills and coughing that followed.

"Uhnn…" He would have shaken his head in disbelief if it didn't already hurt so much. Wandering outdoors in early winter took its toll. Peter felt weak and feverish, as well as hungry. Fresh streams were easy to find, but the search for food had only yielded some crabapples that had yet to fall off the tree. Had that been just this morning, or three days ago? Time blurred under the endless twilight of the forest.

Wood, brambles, and other forest loam kept Peter stumbling his way onward…but to where? To England? Right into the enemy? To nowhere but more land through which to trod until his body simply gave up?

Distant rumbling churned through the air around him, though it seemed much too late in the season for a thunderstorm. Yet there it was; chilled drops of water fell upon Peter as the trees thinned into a small field. He crossed his arms tighter across his chest, and trudged on. If it weren't for his dogtags bouncing rhythmically with his steps, he could almost have imagined himself back in Narnia. Whether with Edmund or some of their dear friends, or on his own, this was not the first difficult situation to come his way.

But Narnia never seemed to be this depressing.

The rumbling grew louder, and somehow more punctuated. Or maybe it was just Peter's imagination. He would have given it more attention had he not already been soaked to the skin with freezing rain and nursing his throbbing wrist. Then, suddenly, he was spared the effort of having to investigate at all.

_BOOM!_

A concussive force of air and spraying dirt knocked Peter right off his feet. His wrist crumpled under the instinct to catch himself. To the right, men poured out of both sides of the field. Shouts and small arms joined the din. Peter rolled to his feet. He was still weaponless, in the middle of a battlefield. How'd he miss this, even in his condition?

The German voices were closer—Peter had nowhere to hide, nowhere to go. If he stayed, certainly he'd be shot. But if he ran for the other side, would the Allied troops recognize him as friend or foe?

Before his body could respond to any decision, however, someone tackled him from the side. He felt a slim knife blade run across his arm as if the coat sleeve were not there. Emotionless eyes burned into Peter's as they tumbled down a short slope. The German soldier, who couldn't be older than himself, cried out as Peter finally landed a blow to the side of the head. They came to an abrupt halt against a log, the German on top.

Two dull impacts hit them from somewhere, but there was no pain. Peter glanced around his limited field of vision. The boy pinning him down had stopped moving.

Dirt showered them as another shell landed close by. Too close. He had to get out of there. Taking the dead German's knife, Peter wiggled out of his unlikely shelter and bolted for the Allied side. Even with adrenaline pumping through his body, though, fatigue, injuries, and the rain-soaked ground slowed his efforts.

Peaceful twilight enveloped him once again as he finally gained the tree line, but artillery and human screams continued to follow him, unhindered. The Allied forces had seemed large' surely that meant that some kind of camp was close.

Darkness fell, and so did the temperature. The rain slacked off to a drizzle under the trees, but Peter's clothes had already absorbed all the water and mud that they could hold. Now that his focus was not required elsewhere, the wracking, painful cough started up once more, shaking his whole body.

_Is that a light ahead?_ He thought blearily. It was hard to tell, between the shadows and the rain. His vision was beginning to swim. But yes, there was definitely a light of some kind now, and her thought he could hear voices. The air around Peter opened up. There was a shape moving towards him. She seemed familiar—wait, no, Caity's hair was darker…he didn't know anymore, didn't understand. And before she could get close enough for him to be sure, the ground floated up to meet him…

1 'inside, indoors'

2 'run' (command)


	7. Chapter 7

"There's nothing else we can do."

"But we've stopped the bleeding! Any moment now he'll stabilize, and then all we have to do is—"

"He's gone; it's over, Caity."

"It's _not_ over! There's got to be something else we can do—"

"_Miss Miller_!" Strong hands grabbed Caity by the arms and turned her away from the table. She realized how badly she was shaking. Dr. Willard's face cleared and blurred in turns. "How long has it been since you rested?"

"But, I'm needed here, we still have work to do—"

"Caity, listen to me. I know we're busy at the moment, but you're pushing yourself too hard. None of us can be expected to be perfect on this job. You're not going to do much good if you just run yourself ragged."

She knew the older man had a fair point, but she couldn't stand to sit around and do nothing. Neither, she discovered, however, could she summon much energy to resist the doctor's gentle leading from the operating room.

"There are a few nurses escorting soldiers from the front. They'll be able to help while you rest awhile." They paused at the sink so Caity could wash her hands and retrieve her cane before heading to the staff lounge. "Lie down for a couple hours. Someone will fetch you if you're absolutely needed."

"Thank you," was all Caity could manage. The sight of the worn sofa made her realize how exhausted she really was. She didn't even bother to fix the pile of charts that sat on the coffee table. Dr. Willard was right—forcing herself to continue wouldn't make time work faster. And it wasn't going to make Peter appear like magic. She had acted silly…

Caity bolted upright. Someone was leaving the lounge, but it was not Dr. Willard. At some point, a blanket had been placed over her. But by whom? The pile of charts had been haphazardly adjusted, however, and was about to slide off. She caught it—and something caught her attention. All exhaustion forgotten, she began to flip through the pile.

Baker, Tillman, Wilkes, Harker, Messing…

_Pevensie_.

Her heart nearly stopped. Without even bothering with her cane, Caity hobbled out of the lounge and toward the main wards. She didn't know if it was excitement or terror that drove her, but drive her it did. Dr. Willard's voice could be heard shouting for her to come back, as well as a couple other yelps of surprise. She ignored them.

Compared to the dim lounge, the ward was almost painfully bright. Still, she hardly waited for her eyes to adjust before pressing on with her search. He _had _to be here.

A red-haired nurse, her back to Caity, stepped to one side to reveal a tousled, dirty-blonde mop. Peter's face was dreadfully pale, and marred by several ugly-looking scrapes and bruises. A fresh, thick cast covered his right arm from hand to elbow.

"Excuse me—oh, Caity!" It was Lizabeth who was tending him. Caity was surprised enough to allow her friend to embrace her.

"How is he? You must have arrived while I was resting—Dr. Willard made me—oh, I'm so glad both of you are safe!" Tears were flowing freely down Caity's cheeks. She didn't care about making a scene, though. Nothing else seemed to matter at all.

Lizabeth finally pulled back enough to speak face to face. "He's very ill, Caity. I don't know where he was stationed, but he wandered into camp a few nights past. Injured, feverish, and sopping wet, he was. Heaven only knows what he's been through." She placed a cold compress on Peter's forehead, and left Caity to some privacy.

"Oh, Peter…" Caity bit her lip, almost fearfully touching the young man's good arm. He was thinner than she remembered, and there was a shadow of a beard on his face. War had changed him. "You're safe now. That's all that matters. You've come home," she whispered.

It might have just been her imagination, but Peter's expression seemed to relax ever so slightly.


	8. Chapter 8

Peter gingerly adjusted the sling around his cast to better cushion it from the bumper of the car ride. Outside, the first real December snow was falling gently. Christmas, though still weeks away, was in the air. And he would be home for it.

It had taken two full weeks before he'd shown signs of recovering from a serious bout of pneumonia, and while he still felt anemic, his eating and sleeping habits had returned well enough to finally come home. This prospect excited him for more than one reason—Caity, who had come down with a cold and was given a few days' leave from work, had no idea he'd been released.

The rest of the Pevensies were already at the Millers' house when the hospital car came to a stop. Peter simply gazed out the window, fingering the cool metal in his injured hand. Somehow, he'd managed to make the entire journey without losing his dogtags. Then the moment passed; he thanked the driver for his services, shouldered his army bag, and climbed out. Dr. Miller had said the front door would be unlocked for the evening.

Compared to the wintery outside, the interior of the house seemed to glow with warmth and happiness. Lucy tiptoed over to hug Peter, her incurable energy for once let out in silence. Their father, at last back on both feet, clapped his good shoulder, while Edmund settled for a dignified, and in fact regal, nod. The little group turned and entered the living room.

Susan smiled as she lit a small candle, which she handed off to another dark-haired girl. Caity was just finishing her festive arrangement when she realized others had come in to join them. Her cane dropped to the floor. She would have run, had there not only been four steps between herself and Peter.

Somehow she managed to tightly embrace him without jostling his arm. And not caring who was watching, they met in a passionate kiss that had waited since their parting months ago. Caity was laughing and crying and bursting with joy that had erupted from nowhere, unable to contain herself until something cool was pressed into her hand.

"These belong to you, as I won't be needing them anymore," Peter murmured to her. "I promised to come home."

Caity beamed at him. Amid the happy noise that frolicked about the room, she thought she heard another noise. It might have been more laughter, but maybe, just maybe, there was a distant roar joining the celebration…

**Fin!**


End file.
